Gifting

Christmas happened on a canal boat at dusk in a little-visited province about three hours north of Bangkok.

As the boat putted along an irrigation waterway, slightly wider than a two-lane road, we passed men wading neck deep as they repaired their shrimp net contraptions, mothers and children bathing, birds fishing, and godknowswhatelse that was right under my nose but that I couldn’t see because it was so far outside my experience.

Viewed through my citified eyes, the evening was perfect. We were in the countryside, at sunset, eating an excellent meal on a channel that to me could have been cut through the Garden of Eden. Every sight, sound, and smell was new. The boat turned around and we savored it all again in near pitch darkness, navigating with the help of a guy on the bow with a flashlight.

Why this trip on this day in this place? Our office had the day off for Christmas. A guy from work and I decided to visit a friend of his whose job in the States would probably be called “county official.” The position allows him to pull in a few favors now and then.

So when we came calling, he had one of his underlings arrange this little excursion. Three or four people none of us knew came along for the ride, perhaps friends of the boatman. The tab was picked up by somebody we didn’t meet until we got back on land. I didn’t understand what was in it for whom, other than to recognize a you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours arrangement.

The rules of the arrangement got even murkier when the underling then escorted the two of us from the dock to a slightly larger provincial capital. There, the vice governor (also a friend of my friend) set up rooms at the nicest hotel in town and elephant rides the next day, all gratis.

I assume that the next time the hotelier and the elephant owner need a permit, they’ll be reminding the vice governor about “those guys from Bangkok who passed through around the end of last year.” Yet the relationships didn’t seem sleazy or entirely dishonest either. I decided it was best to simply mark it down as a Thai kind of gift giving.

Checking the Box

The other night I attended a fundraiser for Hillary. A couple of friends had talked me into it, hinting that the casual gathering, at a private home in an exclusive part of Bangkok, might be graced by a phone call from Hillary’s husband.

I’m generally not too big on cocktail parties, and I’d never been to a political event where I was tapped for money before. It was funny to me that my initiation to this American institution would take place outside the States.

About 25 people showed up, some seriously into politics, others there for the food. Few were committed to the candidate, which was fine with me. I’d probably be satisfied with any of the Democrats.

I enjoyed the mingling more than I liked talking about the election, which in my mind is still way too far off to be stimulating. Bill didn’t ring, but we did have a speakerphone conversation with Madeline Albright.

So I’ve checked another box on the list of life experiences. Along with eating shark fin soup and riding an elephant, it’s one of those rites of passage I can say I’ve done and therefore don’t have to make a habit of.

Election Season

You can’t pass a telephone pole here this week without seeing a campaign poster. The first-since-the-coup election of new parliament members happens Sunday. If any party gets a majority, it will form the new government. Otherwise, lots of horse trading will determine who gets control of which ministry, including the prime ministry.

Unless of course the current military rulers don’t like the outcome, in which case they’ll either invent a reason for staying in power a bit longer, or swallow their pride and admit that the coup didn’t accomplish what they hoped it would.

Even though I don’t really understand most of what’s going on, this election intrigues me more than the American one. It’s short-lived, for one thing. Candidates in the States have been debating for months, and still have nearly a year to go. Who can sustain excitement that long? Here, the election date wasn’t even decided until mid-October.

Also, the posters are cool. My favorite features a serious looking woman dressed in her university graduation robe, above the caption, “Not Crazy!” Then there’s the Artist Party, whose slogan is “No governing principle is best.”

I was amused to learn that if any of the election winners turn out to be suspected of vote fraud, they’ll receive yellow or red cards, just like in soccer. Either color forces a do-over; red means the candidate is disqualified. So much simpler than asking the Supreme Court to step in or examining hanging chads!

Sitcom in the Village

Maybe this next tale is one of those had-to-be-there moments, I’m not sure. Anyway, I turned it over in my head several times afterwards, grinning each time, so here goes.

Jip’s 97-year-old grandma for years has complained of symptoms that in Thailand are lumped under the term “wind illness.” This generic malady is thought to be related to weather in indirect ways, or perhaps to a lack of balance among wind, water, earth, and fire. Beyond that its causes and cures are the subject of much debate.

When Jip did health research among Cambodian women in Seattle, she found them mentioning it frequently, often when discussing their older female relatives. She even wrote up a short article about wind illness in a medical journal, in order to help Western doctors understand the phenomenon in their Asian patients.

Her expertise came in handy when we traveled to Jip’s village last weekend for what has become our annual pilgrimage. We spent two nights. Jip and Grandma were both in great form, laughing easily, enjoying being together. On the second morning, they both woke up around the same time.

Jip complained of stiff legs. I had just started to help her move them, when from the other room came the sound of Grandma moaning in a way that Jip has apparently been used to since forever. Jip’s mom usually deals with the wind illness attacks, but she was at the market. (Jip knew this without having to ask. Mom never misses the Monday morning market.)

So I was dispatched to massage Grandma and to fix her a dose of “bpaaeng cha na lohm,” a special powder to combat wind illness sold by guys along the roadside. Never mind that I had never touched Grandma in my life. Never mind that she was under a mosquito net, which made it hard for her to see whose hands were reaching for her. Never mind that she’s about 90% deaf, so even if my Thai had been perfect she wouldn’t have gotten much of it.

Jip wasn’t helping matters. She thought the whole situation was hysterical. Which I suppose it was. Between Jip shouting barely intelligible instructions from the other room, and Grandma making sick elephant noises, and my trying to convince Grandma that I knew how much powder to mix into how much water, the scene was made for situation comedy. Or maybe you had to be there.

Face Mask

A few weeks back, one of the caregivers slept on our extra bed instead of going home after her shift. She didn’t ask first, and she seemed to be avoiding me.

I left before she got up the next morning, and the next evening the same thing happened. When I asked the others if everything was OK, they smirked a little, and muttered that she had a headache. No further details.

So I hadn’t seen her face for nearly two days when we finally crossed paths in the kitchen on the second morning. Initially she wouldn’t meet my gaze. When she finally looked up, I saw why. Two of the biggest, darkest black eyes I’d ever seen. Oh, my, I thought. Domestic abuse. She’s afraid to go home. This is going to be tricky.

My first thought was to wonder how this episode was affecting Jip. Surely the caregiver had lots more on her mind than caregiving. But she didn’t seem upset or agitated, and Jip hadn’t said anything about feeling neglected.

I asked how she was doing. She said, “it’s healing fine.” I’m sure it is, I said, but how are things at home? Then it was her turn to be confused. Home? What does home have to do with getting cosmetic surgery done on my nose?

The dark bruises are now completely gone. To be honest I don’t see much difference in her appearance. But she’s very happy with the results, and I’m sure would be glad to pass along the name of her doctor in case you’re interested.

As Good As It Gets

Three perfect days in Cambodia confirmed the reaction I had to Angkor Wat last November—that I could return there every year for the rest of my life. Vinnie, his wife Tina, and I poked around the ruins, ate great, then ran a road race at almost the pace we’d planned beforehand. The cool weather was the icing on the cake.

The temples I’d seen before seemed just as inspiring as the first time. The ones that were new to me quickly became my favorites. We hired a tuk-tuk driver and followed a route that mostly kept us ahead of the crowds, while still leaving plenty of spots unseen for future trips.

Our guest house worked out wonderfully too. The owner got intrigued by the half marathon. He hadn’t had guests run it before, and he enjoys photography. So he offered to drive us out to the race with his camera. Now we’re famous! Check out our pictures online, and check in with Dave next time you pass through Siem Reap:

http://www.peaceofasia.com/Angkormararathon.htm